


Moon Song

by foxboxtango



Series: Moon Song [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: He is also often hungry, John's will is frequently tested, M/M, Occasional uncontrollable possessiveness, Protective Wolf sometimes bleeds over, werewolf!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxboxtango/pseuds/foxboxtango
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Moon Song runs in John's blood, as it does for the Wolf.  And both the Wolf and John sing right back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Prelude**

The Wolf was not a beast, except in the most literal sense of the word.  It was not mindless; It was not evil.  It did not hurt for hurt’s sake, It did not hunt for the hunt’s sake, and nor did It mate just to prove that it could.  The moon sung to the blood in Its veins, and It sung right back.

Of course, there was always a part of the Wolf that was John, but there was also a part that Wasn’t.  It wasn’t so much that he and the Wolf were separate, just that they thought in slightly different ways.  John was able to see an open-mouthed smile without leaping backwards into a defensive stance, though he made sure always to smile with his lips together unless it required it.  Mycroft was often treated to John’s sharp, clean smile that showed off his blunt human teeth.  The smile that said _look at me, Mycroft Holmes, and tell me what you see because appearances can be deceiving and I am very much a wolf in sheep’s clothing._   No matter what he said or did, John and the Wolf were of one mind regarding the interfering, untrustworthy man.

And then there was Sherlock.  Sherlock – his brilliant, mad, disaster of a flatmate who had everything of the wolf but the moon song in his blood.  Who never looked twice at John’s odd habits because neither of them had any sense of ‘normal’, and who followed the path of blood and violence and didn’t ( _wouldn’t_ , _couldn’t_ ) ever stop.  He was perfect for both John and the Wolf, moon song or no, and neither of them had any intention of letting him go.

Naturally, that was part of the problem.  Because even if the Wolf wasn’t mindless, wasn’t evil, didn’t hurt or kill or mate because it could, it was still very much a Wolf.  Its instincts and urges, coupled with a human’s often irrational feelings, were strong. The urge to love and be loved in return, the urge to protect what it deemed as its own, and to show off that claim to the entire world, like holding up an enormous flashing neon sign that said ‘ _I have staked my claim, and to all those that would challenge it be warned, for I will not only lay down my life, but fight for it because my future is not complete unless it has this brilliant madman in it_ ’.  And any and all who challenged that claim would be shown what exactly it meant to have something (some _one_ ) to fight for.

Obviously it wasn’t all so dramatic.  The moon song only came once a month for one or two days, and John usually managed to avoid Sherlock for those few days (or it would result in him pinned under the heavy weight of a full grown werewolf who wanted nothing more than to keep him there forever).  For the rest of the month, John was remarkably good at passing for completely and totally human.  He dated when he could, because he craved companionship and affection more than was probably healthy, if he was entirely honest with himself (which he rarely was), and didn’t when he couldn’t.  His dates were usually women, because they were soft and gentle, and there was a bit more normality in cuddling with a woman on the sofa then there was with a man.  But every so often there would be a man who didn’t mind being hugged voraciously and John would be more at home with him than any of the women (even when the Wolf in his head shouted that it was wrong wrong _wrong_ because it wasn’t Sherlock and it should always be Sherlock even when it wasn’t).

Being a werewolf didn’t mean that he conformed to all of the myths and legends – if only because they contradicted each other all over the place.  The mismatched tales of people who had seen glimpses of the change, or seen them howl at full moon, or fired a lucky shot with a silver bullet that hit the place that would kill any animal, silver or not, always contained a small sliver of the truth, but were covered with so many exaggerations even a werewolf would have trouble discerning the true facts.  John and the Wolf came as a package deal.  They were not two separate entities that warred within the confines of the mind, and they agreed on most things, particularly on both the annoyance of Sherlock and the irrational desire to hide him away and ( _love him, claim him, worship him,_ keep _him_ ) protect him from the world.  John was always aware of what the Wolf was doing, and retained some control over Its actions – at least enough to discourage it when it was thirsty and came across Sherlock’s experiments, or saw the door to Sherlock’s room open on the rare occasions he slept and was overcome with curiosity and possessiveness.  The moon was not responsible for the change.  John could change at will, though he rarely did and it was less a horrible battle of identities, and more of an exchange – as though he were handing over the reins to the Wolf for a short period of time.  The moon made him more rambunctious, it was certain, though it did not hold supreme power over John’s body.  The feel of the moon song in his veins was like a low thrum all over his skin, making him vibrate, and it was natural to let the Wolf out and turn that gentle hum into a soaring melody that rose and fell and began and ended with the sky.

John was a part of the Wolf as much as the Wolf was a part of John.  And Sherlock, who knew nothing about the so-called ‘supernatural’ and so completely disregarded their existence, never knew of, never even suspected the circumstances of John’s true existence until many moons had passed.

This is the story of how he found out.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

 

“Sherlock.”  
“Hmm?”  
“I’m going out for the night, alright?”  
“Mmm.”  
“Is there anything you need me to pick up?”

Sherlock’s silence told John everything he needed to know about the amount of attention Sherlock was paying to their conversation.  John sighed, and the Wolf sighed too.  The moon song wilted in his veins, and then blazed with a sudden fire that told John he should probably get out of the flat soon before he attached himself to Sherlock’s neck and started nuzzling and licking and biting and –

“Right, well, I’m off then.  Say ‘bye’ if you’ve heard and actually consciously understood what I’ve said.”

The outstanding silence remained.  John rolled his eyes and the Wolf growled and tugged at the metaphorical leash.  _Get a move on_ , it seemed to say.

“Alright,” John muttered, and backed out of the flat.  He closed the door, walked down the seventeen steps to the entrance, and then let himself out into the open air.  The Wolf breathed a sigh of relief.  There was open space here, and It wanted to get out, but John pushed down firmly.  _Look at the people_ , he told It.  _Don’t you think they’re going to notice something is a bit off if an enormous, adult male wolf bursts out of nowhere?_   It whined, but backed down.

John started jogging for the park.  It was quiet there, especially this late at night, and it was so close to Baker Street it had John’s (and the Wolf’s) scent all over it.  There would be nothing to disturb him (except maybe the odd duck or two, who seemed to have no sense of self-preservation at all – not that the Wolf would hurt them, John liked ducks).

The park was empty when he reached it, and the lamps were dimmed.  John strolled over to a bench, sat down and removed his jacket, shoes and socks.  He could never really figure out why his clothes popped in and out of existence when he changed, but figured that as long as he was going to change into a wolf in the first place it wasn't worth losing sleep over.  He stood, stretched with his hands over his head, and handed the control over to the Wolf.  John changed so abruptly it would have been easy to miss it, and then there was a huge, golden-brown wolf sitting happily upright on the ground.  Its tongue lolled out, tasting the scents in the air and, almost unconsciously, Its front paws lowered and Its bottom rose.  The Wolf scampered around happily, exploring what had changed over the last month, and John watched on amusedly.  The excitement of the Wolf was a recent addition to the change, and made John practically euphoric.  The Wolf’s simple happiness was better than any human happiness John had felt in his life as of yet.  It was pure.  It was lovely.  (And it was very, very addictive.)

John managed to shake himself out of the constant emotional loop he was in and calmed the Wolf.  They raised Their head in unison, physically and internally, and opened Their jaws.

The howl burst out and filled the park.  The moon song surged in Their blood and the howl surged with it.  It rose and fell with the moon, and began and ended with the sky.

Slowly, gradually, eventually it petered off and They lowered their head and raised Their ears and the Wolf shook itself and John breathed and closed his eyes.  And then the full moon was covered by cloud and the Wolf reluctantly gave John control again.

It disappeared and John returned, gazing out into the darkness.  He breathed out.  Changing back was always a conflicting experience for him.  On one hand, it was exhilarating to be the Wolf, to not have to worry about the social norms that were a constant constriction in human life.  But on the other hand, John did rather like having opposable thumbs.  And he liked Sherlock (though he refused to admit just how much), and he didn’t want to give up his company because of a furry, genetic mutation.

John had absolutely no idea how Sherlock would react if he ever found out.  There was no ‘normal’ that he could use as a template.  John was...well, he was a _werewolf_.  And Sherlock defied normal in every way he could, and then some.  When they’d first met, John had had to triple check to be certain that Sherlock didn’t have any of the Wolf in him.  Some of the things he did… But no, Sherlock was completely human, just flesh and blood and bone (and so _vulnerable_ ).  Either Sherlock would accept John’s abnormality and life in 221B would go on as usual for them, or he would freak and kick John out.  The absolute worst-case scenario was being gift-wrapped and given to Mycroft, because John knew if he ever went in to an experimental facility at the command of Mycroft Holmes, he would never get out.

John would rather die.

So he kept his supernatural abilities hidden, for the time being.  He would keep it secret for as long as he needed to – and who knows, maybe it would come to save their lives in the future, and Sherlock wouldn’t mind so much.

Well, he could dream, couldn’t he?

He rolled his eyes at his internal antics and strolled back to Baker Street, the moon hidden and his blood quiet.  His hand trailed against things as he walked – a streetlamp, a phone booth, a post box, a fire hydrant.  It was his own way of marking things (and far less embarrassing than peeing on everything in sight) and served as a deterrent to any other werewolves who came into his territory.  If only it worked for all criminals, then their flat might not get such a beating.  Come to think of it, John should probably tell Sherlock to take their address off his website.  He had kept quiet about the Arab assassin who had tried to kill Sherlock with a sword, but after Moriarty, he’d rather the criminal classes not know of their exact whereabouts while they were sleeping.  Or at least, not have it laid out for them to follow so easily.

His musings brought him to the front door of 221 Baker Street, and he pushed it open, humming quietly to himself.  The sounds of late night television were audible through the door of 221A and John smiled.  He remembered watching the same shows with Mrs. Hudson during his stage of unemployment.  He retraced the seventeen steps to 221B, still smiling, and paused in front of their door.

He stopped.

He sniffed.

“ _Bollocks!_ ”

He charged through the front door, yelling curses as he went.

“Sherlock, what the _hell_ have you done!”

Sherlock was standing in the middle of their kitchen; bold as brass, with a small flame torch (still alight) in his right hand, goggles protecting his hair, a smoking cloth in his left hand, and a confused expression on his face.  Their table was on fire.  John ran around it, grabbed a tea towel from the bench, and started beating at the table.  Sherlock watched on with vague interest.  When the fire was out, John grabbed the flame torch from Sherlock and turned it off.  He set it down on their now charred table, crossed his arms, and _glared_.

Sherlock had the decency to look at least somewhat abashed.

“What did you do?  Or, apparently more accurately, what were you _trying_ to do?”  John had his army voice turned on.  Sherlock shrank back the _tiniest_ bit.  He looked slightly to the left of John’s face.  
“I was trying to see how long it took before wood coated with different aerosol dispersants caught fire.”

John’s mouth fell open.

“What the hell kind of experiment is that, Sherlock!  You could have set the whole building on fire if I hadn’t come home.”

Sherlock sniffed, but still didn’t look at John.

“I had it under control.”  
“Sherlock, if that was under control, I am taking away every piece of lab equipment you own, burning them in a pyre, and then scattering the ash in five different places, during a hurricane.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous John.  It would take you years and years to get to five different hurricanes.  And statistically speaking, you’d die before-”  
“Don’t you talk to me about _statistics_ , Sherlock Holmes!  What were you thinking?”

John stopped, pinched the bridge of his nose, and told himself sternly that he was _not_ Sherlock’s mother.

“Never mind, I don’t want to know.  Hold out your hands.”

Sherlock did.  They'd been through this before.

“Promise me you’ll never do another experiment that involves fire and our kitchen table, or any other object made of wood within five hundred metres of our flat.”  
“John, that’s _ridi_ -”  
“Promise!”

Sherlock sighed and glowered.

“Fine. I _promise_.”  
“Thank you, now let me take a look at you.”

John stepped forward and Sherlock lowered his hands, already bending slightly so that John could look at his face more easily.  He reached out and gently lifted the goggles from Sherlock’s hair.

“They’re meant to protect your eyes, silly, not your hair,” he said softly, eyes raking over Sherlock’s face.  Sherlock smiled slightly, and John thought he saw just a hint of fondness in it.  
“I didn’t expect that reaction.”  
“Well you’re a goose anyway, that’s what they’re for.”

John stepped back and the Wolf, who had been silent for most of the terrifying experience, grumbled slightly.  John pushed it down and tried to focus on gentleness, and not the overwhelming (almost violent) urge to take Sherlock away and keep him safe where nothing and no one could ever even _think_ to harm him.  But Sherlock would probably die of boredom anyway, so it wasn’t a great plan.

“You’ll look a bit singed for a couple days, but there’s no permanent damage.  And I’m sure your eyebrows will grow back.”  
“ _What!_ ”

John sniggered.

“Kidding!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thanks for the response :)  
> I'm probably going to be updating on Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays, most likely in the evenings. I mean, there are only seven chapters in total, not counting the prelude, so there are six more. Unfortunately, next week's going to be a bit hectic, what with performances for the musical I am in, so we'll see how this goes. Hopefully you'll stick with me  
> Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, there might have been a couple different plot lines...  
> Cheers,  
> Foxboxtango :)


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

 

“Freak,” Sally greeted as Sherlock and John arrived at the crime scene.  She stopped.  “What did you do to your face? It looks weird – well, weirder than usual.”  
“Thank you Sally, your observational skills are as astute as ever,” Sherlock said imperiously as he swept past her and under the yellow police tape.  
“Experiment,” John explained in answer of her previous question, then followed Sherlock under and through to the body.

Sally looked at them both, wondering why they got on.

“Freak,” she muttered again for good measure, not sure as to whom she was referring, and then turned back around to continue supervising the crime scene.

-/-\\-

John approached the body, inhaled sharply when he saw it, and then wrinkled his nose, unconsciously mimicking the Wolf’s action in his head.

“Yes, it is quite disturbing, isn’t it?” Sherlock commented, though he sounded more delighted than disturbed.  John looked up, and then realised Sherlock had been talking to him.  
“Oh, yeah.  Yes, I suppose. I was just – I mean, the body’s pretty old, and it hasn’t been cleaned, obviously, so it smells pretty bad.”

Sherlock looked at him and sniffed carefully.

“I can’t smell anything.”

_Oh, goddamn.  Good one Watson._  He coughed.

“Well, you’re around toxic chemicals and smelly experiments all the time, it’s no wonder you’re a bit desensitized.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, considered it, then shrugged and moved on with his inspection of the man lying on the floor.  John breathed a sigh of relief and walked towards Lestrade.

“Hi Greg,” he greeted, and received a nod in response, the other man’s gaze focused on the body.  “You alright?” John asked, concerned.

The DI took a breath to steady himself and shook his head as if to banish any lingering bad thoughts.

 “Yeah, yeah,” he answered.  “Just haven’t seen this sort of brutality in a long while, is all.”

John turned to the body.

It certainly was gruesome.  The man, probably somewhere in his mid-forties, was lying in a pool of his own blood.  There was a bullet in the middle of his forehead, as well as one over his heart, and his limbs had been separated messily from his body.

He turned back to Lestrade.

“It’s never nice to see,” he agreed, thinking of men under the hot sun, lying on top of the burning ground with John’s hands in their bodies, trying to extract shrapnel and bullets and sand and god knows what else.

“John!” Sherlock called.  John smiled briefly at Greg and walked over to Sherlock.  
“Yeah?”  
“What can you tell me about the body?”

John paused, confused.  It was pretty obvious to him what had happened, and if it was clear to him, than it would surely be transparent to Sherlock.  Well, maybe he just wanted a second opinion, to confirm what he already knew.

“He was shot and killed, probably in the forehead first, and then in the chest, but I could be mistaken.  His limbs were removed from his body – most likely while he was still dying, but possibly within the first few minutes of his death before the blood had a chance to clot.  Then again, the blood might not be all his, I don’t know if they’ve done a forensic sweep yet.”

The Wolf sniffed.

“I’d say the body’s been here for several days, certainly more than two, but I think less than a week.  It’s started to decay, but it’s hasn’t physically broke down at all yet.”

He glanced up from his careful scrutiny of the body to Sherlock, who looked startled.

“How’d I do?”

Sherlock’s mouth moved silently for a couple seconds, and then he seemed to gather his senses.  He drew himself up.

“Well, John.  Really well.  Surprisingly well,” he muttered.  The Wolf pricked Its ears up at the praise and John scowled internally at the knee-jerk happiness it brought him.

“Thanks,” he sighed.  
“What else have you got?” Lestrade called from the wall.

Sherlock tilted his head.

“The attacker didn’t actually touch this man before he was killed.  That would suggest the person is either quite small, or not accustomed to close combat and easily overpowered.  The other possibility is a hit man, but if a person was hired to kill, why would he – again, John, the killer being male is statistically more likely – shoot this man and then come close and risk getting caught by messing around with the body?  Of the first two options I’d say the former is more likely, because precautions always need to be taken, especially when someone is being murdered.  Judging by the state of the cuts made to sever the arms and legs off the body, it looks like he wasn’t very strong.  A large man would have been able to swing a knife and press down relatively easily, but it looks more like the killer took multiple goes to separate the limbs, at one point resorting to just sawing away at the bones in an effort to cut them off.  I imagine that this method is symbolic of a gang or something similar and they’re attempting to either establish themselves or send a message.  The former is more probable, seeing as there’s no message in the building targeting a specific person.”

He came to a stop, coat swirling around mid-calf.  John stared at him, astounded smile curving his lips.  It never failed to astonish him how Sherlock did that, how he saw things nobody else could (except perhaps Mycroft, but John’s admiration for him was in negative figures) and put them together in a way that made it seem so obvious.  The fact that the man had chosen to use his intelligence for the good of humankind was a wonder in itself, and John could only be thankful Sherlock hadn’t turned into another Moriarty.  (Though John had to wonder where he’d be if Sherlock was a criminal, and was only mildly surprised by the idea that it might be in the exact same place.)

Sherlock spoke quickly to Lestrade, informing him of extra details and ignoring his request for Sherlock to remain at 221B and _not_ chase after the gang.  Sherlock just smirked and swept away, reaching for John and whisking him up in the whirlwind that he was.  John sighed, mentally gearing up for a long night of running and hopefully not getting too injured.  He had to go to the clinic in the morning, and this time he really _did_ have to go – getting kidnapped last month had put his days off into negative numbers and he’d need to work extra hours if he wanted to keep his job.

John had sense the Wolf questioning why John persisted with his job more than once.  Aside from the brief period of normality it brought that made him long for the danger and excitement of his life with Sherlock, he also happened to be the only one working a steady paid job and if he wanted to continue to live in Baker Street guilt-free, he’d have to continue to get paid, despite the fact that Mrs. Hudson gave them far too much slack on the rent as it was.

John followed Sherlock absentmindedly, trusting the man to lead him where they needed to go and not head-first into traffic (although that had happened once, and it was only the Wolf that had saved them then).  He only became aware Sherlock was talking to him when he stopped and looked at John expectantly.

“What?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, John.  I asked if you were opposed to a stakeout.”  
“Oh, that.  No. Where are we staking out?”  
“A butcher’s shop – hopefully just the one, but most likely more.  I don’t think even I can get it right first time.”

_Huh_ , John thought.

"And there might actually, you know, be some real steak."

The horrified look Sherlock gave him was worth it.

-/-\\-

The first butcher they went to was called the _Natural Kitchen_.  John took one look at it and said,

“Sherlock, there’s no way this is the place.  It’s got a goose on the window!”  
“Geese aren’t innocent, John,” Sherlock said darkly.  John raised an eyebrow, but Sherlock waved him off with a dismissive, “I was stuck in the back of a truck with, as you might imagine, a truckload of geese.  It wasn’t a very happy experience and I wouldn’t care to repeat it again.”

John sniggered to himself, picturing a very undignified Sherlock surrounded by squawking geese.  He’d hold on to that image for the dark times.  Nevertheless, Sherlock moved on and they walked around the block to a place called _The Ginger Pig_.  They walked in, Sherlock poking around the shop while John sniffed at the air.  The Wolf shook Its head, but looked hopeful.  John sent a silenty apology Its way, but they didn’t have time to stop for meat.

“This isn’t it, Sherlock, trust me.”

Sherlock looked at him carefully, but nodded and they left the shop quickly.  Sherlock walked to the footpath and held his arm out for a taxi, looking slightly baffled when one didn’t immediately arrive.  John sniggered again, and then reminded himself that they were trying to find a gruesome murderer, and then decided that was just about the best time to have fun, seeing as it was so depressing.  Sherlock still managed to hail a cab faster than any other person John had seen, and they were soon on their way to another butcher.  Their destination was a place called _Biggles_ , and it looked like any typical deli, but as soon as they opened the door, the Wolf raised Its head and inhaled deeply.

“Sherlock, this is it.”  
“Yes.”

They loitered around until the rest of the customers had received their purchases and left, John peering at various picked vegetables and salted meats and trying to ignore the Wolf’s rumbling stomach.

Sherlock approached the counter and took a ticket with his ‘normal person smile’ on; the one John thought made him look slightly deranged, but didn’t have the heart to tell him that.

“Hi!  How are you?  Umm, I’d like 300 grams of shaved ham, please, and a cut of lamb.  Oh, and I do hope you had the decency to at least clean the knife you used to cut the arms and legs off the man you killed a couple of days ago before using it in the shop again.”

There were approximately three seconds of silence, in which John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s dramatics, and then the man darted towards the back of the shop and Sherlock threw open the door in the counter and charged after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Thanks again for the kudos and for reading my story :) On a side note, it's not really important, but all of the butchers mentioned are real places relatively close to Baker's Street.  
> So far I'm on track for my update schedule!  
> Cheers,  
> Foxboxtango  
> Disclaimer: sorry, still don't own anything related to Sherlock, unless you count the DVDs and CDs, which don't, really...


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

 

The charge didn’t actually consist of much charging; it was more of a short jog in an effort to not lose sight of the shopkeeper.  Within minutes they had cornered the man in a dead end alleyway and he was left panting with his hands on his knees.  He raised his head long enough to see that Sherlock and John were walking towards him, and then promptly passed out on the floor.

Sherlock stopped by the unconscious murderer and nudged him with his shoe.

“That was actually quite disappointing,” he remarked.  John had to agree.  It was nothing like their (too) frequent chases along London’s rooftops – they thrilled John and, though he would never admit it to anyone lest they put him in the psych ward, he had started running on rooftops for his weekly jogs.  He would never tell Sherlock.

“John, go check the back of the shop.  I’ll sort this out.”  
“And phone Lestrade?

Sherlock sighed.

“ _And_ phone Lestrade,” he agreed.

John strolled casually back into _Biggles_.  The lack of danger-fuelled adrenaline kept him aware of exactly how long he’d been up and without food, and he consciously repressed his growling stomach.

“Oh for -”

In the back of the store was another man who had previously been hidden within the cool room, but upon John’s return looked up from the dead body he was carrying and froze.  There was a silent stand-off for perhaps a minute, and then the man (manager of the shop, according to his name tag) dropped the corpse, readjusted the bloody knife in his grip and ran, knife point-first, towards John.  John scrabbled at his back for several seconds before realising that he hadn’t brought his gun.  By then, the knife was only metres away, and John could do almost nothing.

The Wolf leapt out, ducked under the manager’s arm, and clamped Its jaws around his thigh.

The man screamed and the knife fell to the floor with a clatter, blood staining the ground.  The Wolf shook Its head twice, tearing at the skin and making the man cry out again. It darted back and surveyed the damage.  The man’s trousers were fast turning dark red, as were his hands as he pressed them to his wound.  He coughed and, as he fell to his knees, the door to the storerooms crashed open and Lestrade burst in, gun out and safety undone.  There was a split second where he and the Wolf stared at each other, the gun pointed straight between Its eyes, before Greg blinked and John was standing there with his hands up.

“Woah, Greg, please don’t shoot me; I can only stand getting shot once,” John joked, slowly lowering his hands.  The gun lowered in time with them, until the DI stood with his arms by his sides and a confused look on his face.  He opened his mouth and John could sense the proverbial storm gathering as questions warred on his face.

Sherlock ran back in, blood on his fingers and across his face.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what the hell?”  
“I heard screaming, what happened?”  
“I left you alone with an unconscious man, for crying out loud!”

John rushed towards him, ignoring his questions.

“Oh, that, it’s not my blood, I just wanted to know the answers to certain questions and he wasn’t being very forthcoming.”

Lestrade closed his eyes and was clearly prepared to start on _yet another_ lecture about proper civilian arrests and the fact that it really was quite illegal for Sherlock to be interrogating witnesses, particularly outside of New Scotland Yard, and honestly Sherlock, it was illegal even then.  Sherlock was able to tell what was coming, could most likely recite the lecture word for word and, looking to head it off, directed the attention back to the man on the floor.

Unfortunately, that meant Sherlock’s attention was directed at the man on the floor, something John had been hoping to avoid.

“What happened?"  Sherlock looked about as surprised as he ever did.  Both eyebrows were raised and his eyes were wide with both confusion and determination.

“There was a dog,” Lestrade lied smoothly.

Both Sherlock and John turned to look at him.

“There was a what?” Sherlock asked.  Only through force of will did John’s mouth remain shut and not ask the same question.  
“You know, domestic animals that some people keep as pets?  Only this one wasn’t so domestic, I guess.  I couldn’t tell what kind of dog it was, it ran away almost as soon as I arrived, but it was definitely a dog that did this.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion and peered curiously at the man on the floor, who had passed out during the conversation.

“Sherlock,” John attempted.  “What did you do to the other man?"  
"Oh, he's attached to one of the pipes outside."

John frowned.

“With what?”  
“A zip tie.”  
“A zip tie?  Where did you get -” John patted his pockets.  “Right.”

Greg looked amused.

“Come prepared now, do you?”  
“You never know when you’re going to have to tie people up,” John said.  “And sometimes it’s good to have as a threat.”  He jerked his head at Sherlock and they shared a grin, before remembering what had happened before and looking away.

“Come on, Sherlock, I’m sure you’ll be able to look at him later, we need to get them both into custody now,” Lestrade said, in Detective Inspector mode.  The rest of his team had been gradually filtering in through the door and were collecting evidence in bags.

John pulled a pouting Sherlock away and led him over to a tap.  Sherlock washed his hands, dried them carefully on a paper towel, and turned to John, staring at him intensely.  The Wolf laid Its ears back and John tried not to fidget.

“Did you see the dog, John?”

He knew Sherlock’s use of his name was some sort of psychological attempt to get him to tell the truth.

“It was hard for me to see, but it sounded like a dog.”  
“Hmm.”  
“Why, do you think Lestrade’s lying?”  
“I’m not sure yet.  It’s possible that it was a dog, of course, and perhaps I’m overreacting, but it seemed like he was hiding something.”

John’s heart pounded in his chest.

“Oh well, I’m sure I’ll figure it out sooner or later.”

 _Thank god._   Sherlock’s arrogance could be a blessing, sometimes.

-/-\\-

By the time Lestrade’s team had catalogued the evidence and taken it back to the labs for forensic analysis and Greg had taken Sherlock’s statement, John was so hungry he was thinking about just pillaging the store and taking what he wanted.  Fortunately, Greg’s arrival in front of him stopped him from stealing food.  Unfortunately, it meant John would have to answer his questions.

“I’ve sent Sherlock home, told him we were going out for a pint,” Greg informed him.  John was impressed – usually, telling Sherlock to do something resulted in him doing the exact opposite.  Because he was a ridiculous child.

“Well done you,” John said in return.  Lestrade rolled his eyes and stepped back to allow John to stand.  They walked out of _Biggles_ and down the street towards the Yard.  They stopped briefly for food on the way, thanks to every other step being punctuated by John’s stomach growling.  About half an later, they made it to Greg’s office.  He walked around the desk and sat down in the office chair, surveying John carefully.  Cautiously, John edged in and sat in the chair closest to the exit, unsure of what was to come.

“So.  I didn’t hallucinate, did I?”  
“Well actually-”  
“Nice try.”

 _Dammit_.

“Look, John, I don’t really know what to say.  I think we’ve become friends – there’s been a fair bit of bonding over beer at our mutual annoyance at the Holmes brothers – so can you please be honest with me?”

John sighed – he hated being honest with people.

“There is literally no way for me to say this without you thinking I’m batshit crazy.”  
“Are you batshit crazy?”  
“No!”  
“Alright, I just thought I’d check.”

He scowled.

“I’m a werewolf.”

Silence.

“You _are_ batshit crazy.  
“No I’m not!  I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s the truth!”

Lestrade was still looking at him like he was out of his mind, so John, scowling loudly and with force, stalked over to the door and pulled the blinds down, doing the same to cover the glass walls.  Without preamble, he gave the slightly surprised Wolf control.

“Holy _shit_!  Now _I’m_ batshit crazy!”

The Wolf’s rump fell to the floor with a loud thump and Its ears flattened across Its head.

 _I’m right here_ , Its expression seemed to say.  Greg recovered enough to slide his chair forward from the window and stared into the Its eyes.  Squinting slightly, he reached out a hand and put it between the Wolf’s ears, patting the fur there lightly.  Unconsciously, Its tail started smacking against the floor, making Greg smile bemusedly.

“Weird,” he breathed, and withdrew his arm, easing back into his chair.  John took control again and regained his seat, this time sitting on the other side of the desk and not about to run out of the door (open or not) at a moment’s notice.

“That’s crazy.”

John snorted.

“You’re telling me.”

Lestrade went back to staring at him.  John sighed, exasperated.

“It doesn’t really change anything, you know.  I’m still me – I’m going to be the exact same me you’ve known the entire time.  Except now you know that I have the ability to turn into a furry animal.  Think of it like finding out I’m bi.”  
“You’re _bi_?”  
“Oh my god, Greg, are you sure you’re a Detective Inspector?  Because you’re not doing very well with things right in front of your face at the moment.”  
“Shut up, you, I could…have you arrested.”  
“That threat stopped working ages ago, Greg.”  
“Shut up.”

The DI looked him over, this time more as an appraising glance than a you-are-literally-a-supernatural-being-and-I-don’t-know-how-to-react-to-this-right-now stare.  It was an improvement, in John’s opinion – he didn’t fancy being tasered.

“I won’t tell.”  
“Oh really?  Thanks.”  
“John.”

He sighed.

“Sorry, it’s just really weird having someone who knows.  I’m not used to it.”

Lestrade stared at him again.

“Wait, what?”

John stared back, confused.

“What?”  
“No, _what_?  Sherlock doesn’t know?"  
“No…should he?”  
“Christ, John, you’re flatmates!  And…”

John’s eyes narrowed sharply.

“Friends,” Greg finished lamely.  
“Look,” John started.  “Sherlock doesn’t need to know at the moment.  If and when he needs to know I’ll tell him, and no sooner.  Or show him – whatever.”  
“John, he’s _Sherlock_.  He’s going to catch onto it sooner or later.”

John rolled his eyes at the familiar words.

“I can’t make you do anything, you’re a grown…man…but if I were you, I’d just _talk_ to him.  You know he’s weird, he probably won’t even care.  I mean, the worst I can imagine is him wanting to experiment on you, and knowing the both of you, he probably already does.”

John scowled again and stood.

“You’re making it sound like a domestic,” he muttered.  
“All healthy relationships require communication!” Greg called out cheerfully as John slunk out of his office.  He half smiled at John’s low, but terrifyingly loud, growl, and even more at the frightened interns scampering down the hallway in the opposite direction.

“Good luck hiding it from Sherlock, John,” he muttered to himself and smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squee, matchmaking!Greg is the best. I love Rupert Graves.  
> It really does take about half an hour to walk from 'Biggles' to New Scotland Yard, just so you know. I've been Google Mapping (she stated proudly).  
> Thanks again for reading everyone.  
> Cheers,  
> Foxboxtango :)  
> STILL ON SCHEDULE FOR UPDATING. LET'S SEE JUST HOW LONG THIS WILL LAST...  
> Beta? No.  
> Disclaimer: NO


	5. Chapter Four

John’s sullen mood lasted the whole way out of Scotland Yard, and he was still scowling when he made it to the footpath outside.

Where a black car was waiting for him.

“Oh for f-”

He stopped, closed his eyes and attempted to not burst out of his skin and run the whole way home.  There were the sounds of someone opening a car door and then a soft,

“If you don’t mind, Doctor Watson.”

John could have said many things to that, including _Of course I sodding mind, you bloody government agent, I don’t like being picked off the streets by Mycroft at the best of times, and now is definitely not one of them.  Tell Mycroft to bugger off or I’ll eat him._   But he didn’t, because he liked to think he was better than that.  So instead of cursing and railing against life in general, and the British Government in particular, John climbed into the car.  And if he closed the door a little harder than he normally did, nobody mentioned it.

The car wound through London’s streets, somehow managing to avoid the traffic, and John didn’t bother taking note of where he went.  He trusted Mycroft about as far as he could spit, but knew Sherlock’s attachment to him meant he was (mostly) safe from grievous bodily harm.  And he didn’t think Sherlock would mind too much if John injured his brother in self-defence; he would probably quite enjoy it, actually. With that in mind, John was slightly more cheerful about the imminent meeting.

Sure enough, the car pulled up to a decrepit warehouse and John was politely but forcefully kicked out of the car.  The beautiful assistant (though assistant was most likely the wrong word – she probably controlled half the nation, if not more) he had seen the first time a kidnapping had occurred was long since gone – he had never seen her again after that.  The agents tasked with the job of retrieving John changed often, and he only saw the same person twice, three times at the most, before an entirely new individual was brought in.  He assumed it was meant to keep him on edge and not allow him to get too friendly with any of Mycroft’s underlings, but the elder Holmes shouldn’t have bothered worrying. John was hardly going to attempt a relationship with someone who reported directly to Mycroft.  It was bad enough being followed around the city by CCTV cameras wherever he went and he didn’t even want to think about the bugs back at the flat.

As ever, Mycroft awaited him, leaning against a closed umbrella behind a single chair.  After the third kidnapping, John had stopped being stubborn and just taken the chair, deciding it was more of an act of dismissal than submission.

“You know, I get that you’re the British Government and it’s all very hush hush, but I think by now we’ve hopefully established that I can actually be trusted with things.  It wouldn’t hurt to go to a café or something now and again.”

Mycroft smiled the thin-lipped smile he gave whenever he thought John was being childish.

“I will make a note of it,” he said.

John rolled his eyes and took the chair, sitting back in it and raising his eyebrow at Mycroft.  The Wolf crouched, uneasy.

“Earlier this afternoon, you accompanied my brother to three butchers, eventually finding the one that employed the murderers of the man you were called in to investigate, wherein one collapsed unconscious after a rather dismal pursuit and one attempted to stab you with a knife.”  
“You’d think I’d be used to how creepy you are when it comes to information, but it still surprises me.  Aren’t you meant to be working on world domination or something, not watching over your little brother and myself?”  
“The Detective Inspector told Sherlock it was a dog that attacked the second man.  He was lying.  It was instead…Well, I’d say it was a wolf, but that’s not _quite_ true, is it Doctor Watson?”

He went silent, giving Mycroft a hard stare and refusing to engage.  John just hoped Mycroft wouldn’t push the matter – he didn’t hold as much control as he normally did.  Strong emotions always made it that bit more difficult and it had already been a rather stressful day.

“Do you take much stock in myths and legends, Doctor Watson?  I have to say, _I_ didn’t.  At least, not until maybe five years ago, when it was brought to my attention while perusing employee spreadsheets, that several of our people are slightly…strange.  They seem to have special abilities that make them much more dangerous in the field, as well as giving them a significantly longer life expectancy.  Naturally, I was curious, so I did a bit more research, looking closer at these specific people until I finally figured out what, exactly, made them so special.”  
“Do you know, both you and Sherlock have the exact same desire for making things as dramatic as they possibly can be?”  
“These people,” Mycroft continued, as though John hadn’t interrupted with his anxious humour, “possess the quite remarkable ability to change their shape.  If I was a fan of the supernatural, I’d call them werewolves.  Do you know what I saw today, Doctor Watson, as I looked at the footage of the storerooms of _Biggles_?”

Despite the circumstances, John took a perverse pleasure in hearing Mycroft Holmes say ‘Biggles’ and resolved to mention it to Sherlock later.  He was feeling particularly vengeful.

“I saw _you_ , the – please forgive me, it is not an insult when I say – rather ordinary army doctor shifting your form into that of a wolf.”

It was an insult; John knew that in spite of the many differences between the Holmes brothers, they both viewed ‘normal’ people with distaste and wariness.

“Yes, well done Mycroft.  I’m a bloody werewolf, are you happy now?” John snarled, not bothering to try and rein in the canine aspects of his personality. He figured there wasn't much point now, and if Mycroft was going to have him shipped off then he may as well seem as dangerous as possible.

The Wolf was on high alert, practically pacing behind the proverbial bars that kept John in control, waiting for a chance to break through.

“What are you going to do, lock me up in a facility and have people experiment on me?  Because I can absolutely guarantee that it won’t end well for anyone.  Not for them, and certainly not for you.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous John.”

The Wolf snarled loudly in John’s head and John’s mouth twisted up in a feral sneer.  He was close to breaking point.

“I merely want to know why you haven’t told Sherlock.”

The Wolf stopped in Its tracks.  Both It and John stared hard, almost cross-eyed.  Did Sherlock suddenly become the centre of the universe?  Had his lack of knowledge actually influenced astronomical certainties and made him the focal point of everyone around him?

“Why,” John ground out, “is everyone so obsessed with me telling Sherlock?”  
“Well you do live with the man after all.  And I was under the impression that, when in a relationship such as the two of you have, one tells another something like that.”

If John’s eyes were any narrower, he’d be closing them.  It felt like the Wolf was practically throwing Itself against the walls of John’s head, and a pounding headache was growing rapidly.

“A relationship such as _what_?” he growled, his voice the lowest it had ever been.  Had he not been watching so carefully, he might have missed Mycroft’s reaction.  The man didn’t step back in fear or allow his eyes to widen in surprise.  All that showed on his face was the tiniest flare of his nostrils that indicated the presence of caution, the rest of his face remained as cool and collected as it always was.

“Of two very close friends, I’d imagine, unless there’s something else the both of you are hiding from me?”

The Wolf stopped flinging Itself in an attempt to get out, but remained standing, ears pulled back in an offensive position.  John realised he was standing up.  He took a deep breath in and sat, feeling his headache recede as both he and the Wolf calmed slightly.

“Goodness knows I don’t want to end your friendship and cohabitation with Sherlock, Doctor Watson.  You’ve been a good influence for him, though I’m not entirely certain I can say the same for the other way around.  However, I believe that it would be in your best interests to be honest with him.  He is not, loathe though I am to admit it, the world’s only Consulting Detective for nothing.  He will most assuredly figure it out sooner or later,”

John was starting to hate those words.

“And I’m betting it will be the former.  When he finds out, do you not think it would be better to have heard it from your own mouth, than to discover you have been lying to him for the whole time?  I merely suggest you think on it, is all.”  
“Right, that’s all,” John snorted.  Mycroft carefully ignored it.  “If I tell Sherlock, and that’s a big ‘if’, do I have your word that you will not try to take me away?  Because I meant it when I said it wouldn’t end well – I’m not sure if you fully understand the mentality of werewolves.”  
“But of course, Doctor.  I can find other, more willing participants should I want to conduct a scientific investigation, and I can only assume it will be much easier, considering I will not have to go through Sherlock to gain the acceptance of such subjects.”

The Wolf looked at him cautiously, apparently deciding Mycroft was being as trustworthy as he could ever be (as in, not very, but probably not plotting to kill/maim/experiment on John or the Wolf at that very moment) and lay down again, ears still up.

John stood and nodded.

“Right, then I will keep my eye out for an opportune time for me to tell Sherlock that I am a werewolf,” he said, only slightly sarcastically.  “Good evening Mycroft.”  
“Good evening, Doctor Watson.  Give my regards to Sherlock.”

John barked out a laugh and raised a hand in farewell, having already turned his back on Mycroft.  The Wolf settled back down, relaxing fractionally every step they took away from the man who was essentially the British Government.  John clambered into the car, asked to be dropped at “221 Baker Street, thanks,” and thought back over his day.

And what a hell of a day it had been.

At that moment, John wanted nothing more than to go home, order deliverable takeaway, make as many cups of tea as he liked and watch crap telly.  The Wolf put in a request for cuddling on the sofa (which always smelled like Sherlock and made It inhale every time John walked through the living room) and John was seriously considering how he could coerce Sherlock into it before realising that it was decidedly a _not_ flatmate thing to do.  He sighed, mentally patted the Wolf on Its head in commiseration, and thanked the driver somewhat frostily as they arrived at 221.

A night in at home with no more running, no more interrogations, and lots and lots of food was what John needed, at that point. He was tired, he was hungry and he was still tense.  He could only hope Sherlock hadn’t set anything on fire before he walked through the door, as the most likely outcome for that would involve sharp teeth.  John pushed open the door to the building, climbed the steps and walked into his flat.

Thankfully, there was an absence of fire.  However, there was also an absence of Sherlock, and John had started to panic before his phone buzzed.  He pulled it out and read,

_Angelo’s.  Come at once if convenient.  
\- SH_.

Seconds later, another followed.

_If inconvenient, come anyway.  
\- SH_.

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s need for signing his initials at the end of every text, even during a steady conversation where John, idiot though he may be, had pretty much established who he was talking to.  He rolled his eyes again at the fact that even when he wasn't there, Sherlock could upset John’s plans for the evening.  Then again, he was at Angelo’s so maybe John could get a full meal anyway.  Sighing, he retraced his steps, locked the door, and went out into the street to try and hail a cab without Sherlock’s magical powers.  Forget being a werewolf, he’d much rather have that ability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY GUYS!!  
> I got sick two days ago, right before my five musical performances, and it's pretty much just my throat, at the moment, though I am getting the sniffles too. Which is just great when you have to sing. :|  
> Anyway, I'm sorry that I didn't upload this chapter last night, but hey, I have a day off school today so at least you get it now and not in another 6-7 hours. That's something, right?!  
> After this chapter it gets more exciting. I promise.
> 
> The Wolf loves cuddles!...(and comments)


	6. Chapter Five

All John had wanted was some food, and then to go back to 221B and sleep for fourteen hours.  That was literally _all_ he had wanted at that point.  But when you lived with Sherlock Holmes, it was never going to be as simple as that.

John had made it to Angelo’s and, not for the first time, was extremely grateful of the preferential treatment he gave Sherlock ‘and his date’.  John had long since stopped protesting the moniker – it never seemed to change anybody’s mind.  They had placed their orders and were served within ten minutes, much to the disgust of the couple on the table next to them, but John was too tired to care. He toyed with the idea of ordering a glass of wine, but Sherlock shook his head as soon as the thought crossed his mind and John knew that if he drank, he’d be asleep on the table in minutes.  Angelo’s pasta was as good as ever, and John practically wolfed it down (laughing internally at the irony) – even Sherlock ate, though his manner was more comparable to that of a bird, picking at bits and pieces on his plate and preferring to scrutinise John intently.  John could practically hear the gears turning in Sherlock's head, but couldn't quite bring himself to care.

He was flagging with every minute that passed and knew that unless they left reasonably soon and he was put in a bed somewhere (or even just in a horizontal position, he wasn’t picky), he would pass out on the way.  They stood, John tried to hand Angelo money with no success – Sherlock didn’t bother trying, and the seated couple’s scowls deepened – and wandered out the door and into the street, carrying bags of takeaway.  Sherlock steered John away from the restaurant and towards a bigger road, readying his cab-hailing abilities.

They had passed a small side street and were nearly at the main road when they heard the sharp clicks of the safety being taken off a gun.  John and Sherlock stilled, not turning around.  John’s pulse pounded in his is, the roaring adrenaline having chased away all thoughts of sleep.  Footsteps came towards them and a clear voice commanded,

“Drop everything and put your hands in the air.”

John carefully placed the bag of food on the ground - it seemed a shame to waste such good takeaway.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock lift his arms and John raised his own halfway.  At least a dozen men, all huge, dressed completely in black and heavily armed, stepped out of the shadows.  The man who had spoken stepped in front of them, the gun steady in his hand as he pointed it at John.

It was an easy enough mistake to make, to assume Sherlock was the larger threat and to play on his emotional attachments in an effort to dissuade him from attacking, but it made everything so much simpler for John.  If the gun had been pointed at Sherlock, he would have been forced to come quietly, because Sherlock, no matter how much he protested, was nowhere near as good as hand-to-hand combat as John was.  With the gun pointed between his own eyes, however, John simply smiled briefly and allowed the angry, resentful Wolf to shine through.  His grin widened to show his teeth, putting the man in front of him off long enough for John to dash forward, grab the gun and bring it down hard on the his head.  John had already shot two more men before the first slumped to the floor, unconscious.  Sherlock had pushed himself against the wall, scowling fiercely but forced to acknowledge John’s expertise in the circumstances.  Their burly attackers had all but forgotten Sherlock, focused instead on the small but extremely determined and violent army doctor.  The Wolf snarled and lashed out, striking yet another man in the back of his head – he was still a doctor, despite his army days, and he aimed to main, not kill.  Several unconscious bodies were strewn around John.  His eyes were wide and slightly wild and the remaining men were proceeding with caution, recognising the threat John posed.

Unfortunately, even John wasn’t a match for them when they attacked him all at once, as he’d known they would as soon as they got over the shocking notion of someone actually fighting back.  Short of handing over total control to the Wolf, there was nothing he could do, though that idea was growing increasingly appealing – then he could take Sherlock home and finally, _finally_ , pass out on the floor.  Despite Sherlock’s distinct lack of participation in the fight (he had sneakily shot one of them, though no one had seen), they still grabbed him roughly.  John snarled and struggled in their grip and, just as he was about to get free, the man holding Sherlock wound a hand in his curls and tugged his head back, exposing his neck and carefully pressing a knife against the smooth skin.  John’s vision turned red and the Wolf howled, but he stilled so suddenly the people holding him almost stumbled.  Then, perhaps luckily for his captors, a rough bag was thrown over his head and a needle was injected into his arm.

Within minutes, John and Sherlock were on the ground, dead to the world and completely at the mercy of their unknown attackers.

-/-\\-

Sherlock had an incredibly reliable body clock.  He marked the days they spent imprisoned as they passed and was able to tell John the time to the hour, if perhaps not to the exact minute, whenever he asked.  Of course, John had no way of knowing whether Sherlock was accurate or not, but trusted the man nonetheless.  On the third day, there began a slow shift to the air in the room.  It changed so slowly John hardly noticed until “half six, John, I’m beginning to feel like a talking alarm clock," when his blood started burning.

_Ah, so that’s what the nameless dread he’d been feeling for the last three days was._

The full moon.

Well John was monumentally screwed.

The Wolf had been a constant presence in the back of his mind over the last three days.  When John had realised what, exactly, the men surrounding them were intending to do, his first instinct had been to change forms, let the Wolf deal with everyone, and then lead Sherlock straight back home, onto the living room rug, where It could lie on top of him for a few hours.

The human part of John recognised the flaws in that plan, mainly the part where he changed into a Wolf and viciously attacked at least a dozen armed men, but also the part about lying on Sherlock (although oddly enough, it seemed all parts of John were far less opposed to that idea than they really should be).  However, now that they had been kidnapped and there was seemingly no end to the waiting and boredom, he was starting to wonder if that hadn’t been a better idea than effectively letting himself get captured.

Getting himself caught by the ‘goons’ wasn’t much of an issue for the Wolf.  Perhaps it was because of the knowledge that he could break free at any time.  The hardest part, the part that had John practically crawling out of his skin and wanting to tear himself away, was watching Sherlock.  They hadn’t just thrown down their takeaway, lifted their arms, and shouted “Come, blind me, gag me and tie me up” – they had put up a fair fight.

The Wolf hadn’t really calmed down from their treatment of Sherlock yet, so John had had to deal with a constant low growl reverberating around his head, and whenever he stopped concentrating on keeping control, his grip slipped and bits of the Wolf shone through in his person.  Any time anybody came into the room, John would practically fly from his position – usually on the floor or against the wall – to stand, slightly crouched, in front of Sherlock.  This attracted odd looks from both Sherlock and the intruder, but John didn’t pay either of them any mind and only retreated back to his original spot when the door had been closed and locked.

With his senses already on high alert and tension almost pouring off his body, John really could have done without the added issue of trying to control the Wolf during the full moon.  He was almost as close to the change as he could be without actually slipping and giving the Wolf control, and it was nearly killing him.  The only thing he had a handle on at that point was distance, which seemed to be the key.

As long as John kept his distance, he would be fine.

-/-\\-

“Sherlock,” John started urgently.  
“About seven,” Sherlock said wearily, not waiting for a question.   They were close to their fourth day of capture.  
“No, Sherlock, _listen_.  I’d like to imagine we’ve become pretty good friends, but I know that everyone has certain boundaries and this probably crosses pretty much all of them.  If I’m acting odd for the next twelve to fourteen hours, it’s not _entirely_ my fault, and it would be really great if you could…well I was going to say pay it no mind, but that’s like asking you to get the milk – an exercise in futility.  So can you not pay it _too much_ mind?  Just imagine I’ve been drugged.  It’s fairly close to the truth, after all.”

The hormones John was about to produce were _crazy_.

“John, when have I ever implied I care about your oddities?  Honestly, having lived with me for this long, I’d have thought you would have managed to get that into your head.  I am possibly the worst flatmate there is.  And I will almost assuredly never make an effort to change that.”  
“It’s not as simple as just leaving human body parts in the fridge, or talking to the skull, or shooting holes in the wall.”  
“ _Just?_ ”  
“It’s something much bigger than that, figuratively and literally.”

Sherlock looked put out at John’s apparent dismissal of his strange habits – John had a feeling he took a sort of misplaced pride in his weirdness.

“Well?” Sherlock asked slightly sulkily.  “Are you going to tell me what it is?”  
“No.”  
“ _No?_ ” Sherlock was outraged.  
“Unless it actually happens, you don’t need to know about it.”

Sherlock stared at him, and John wondered if that had been a good idea.  Now Sherlock was going to try and _deduce_ it out of him.

 _Well good luck_ , John thought grimly.

“Shouldn’t I be warned though, just in case?” Sherlock pressed.  
“Not really.”

His mouth drew into a small, tight line.

“Will it harm me?”  
“Are we going to play twenty questions now?”  
“I said, _will it harm me?_ ”  
“Not at all.”  
“Will it affect me?”  
“Ye-es.”  
“In a good or bad way?”

John sighed.  _If I knew that,_ he thought to himself, _I’d feel a hell of a lot better about how this will go._

“No idea.”

Sherlock glared.

“You’re not being very forthcoming, John.”  
“Yes, I know, Sherlock, that’s rather the point.”

He sighed, and resumed staring at John.  John stared back, reasonably assured that Sherlock wasn’t going to figure it out.  Either John wouldn’t be able to control the Wolf due to the presence of Sherlock and It would launch Itself at him, or John himself would be the one pressed up against Sherlock.  _Probably right up close to his neck_ , John thought darkly, half imagining it and half desperately trying not to.

He groaned and shifted against the wall to sit with his feet flat on the floor and his knees tucked up against his chest, so that he could press his face to them.

_Why did this have to happen to him?_

John took a deep breath in, and moved again, this time sitting cross-legged with his back straight up to the wall, in the classic meditation pose.  He took another deep breath and closed his eyes, ignoring Sherlock’s eyes burning into him.  John sunk into his own mind (a bit like how he imagined Sherlock would do whenever he entered his Mind Palace) and found the space in his head where he and the Wolf were connected.

 _Now look,_ John said sternly.  The Wolf growled quietly in response. _I know that it’s full moon, and I know that the song is here, and I know that Sherlock is_ right there, _but I need you to stay calm and let me keep control.  Just for tonight, it’s imperative that you do this._

The Wolf went silent and stared at John for a long while.  John waited patiently, and eventually the Wolf gave a small whimper and he had the image of It settling down to wait out the night.  John swallowed.

 _Thank you,_ he said gratefully.

He had almost made it back to reality when the Wolf lifted Its head and snarled once, the sound echoing throughout John’s head.  The meaning was clear.

 _If something dares to make any move towards him, I will not hesitate_.

In his head, John smiled his full smile, the one that showed all of his teeth and the danger in his eyes.

_Good._

-/-\\-

“John.”

Pause.

“John.”

Pause.

“John.”

Pause.

“Jo-”  
“ _What do you want, Sherlock?_ ”

Pause.

“ _Bored_.”  
“So am I, but there’s nothing I can do about it, is there?”

Sherlock sighed.  He went up to the door and pounded on it.  John’s eyes widened and his muscles tensed.  _What did he think he was_ doing?

Nothing happened, so Sherlock hammered on the door again.

“What?” one of the guards growled through the door.  
“Bored!” Sherlock shouted back.  “Give me something to _do_ , otherwise my mind will rot and I’ll kill myself just to escape from this dull pointlessness!”

There was silence from the other side of the door.  Sherlock kicked it angrily and went back to flop down in his original spot on the floor.  Then, the door creaked open.

John’s whole body flinched with the instinct to rise, but, miraculously, he managed to remain seated.  Nobody entered, but a book and several crayons were chucked in.  The door slammed shut again. Sherlock stared at the items like they were responsible for the whole situation, and then dragged himself off the floor to peer at the book.  He read the title, picked it up, and chucked it back at the door, scowling fiercely.  Laughter filtered in from outside.  John squinted at the book and rolled his eyes.  If you wanted to piss Sherlock off, _Twilight_ would probably do it, never mind his own feelings toward the book (which bordered on absolute detestation).

Sherlock grabbed the crayons and went to one of the walls.  He looked at them, took one, and then started writing.  John raised an eyebrow, but watched curiously, wondering what Sherlock could be writing.  Complex chemical formulae and scientific names were scrawled laboriously all over the wall.  More than once, a crayon snapped in Sherlock’s hand, and he growled before throwing it behind him.  Eventually, Sherlock stepped back and stared at his work.  He retreated from the wall and sat down next to John.

Alarm bells started ringing in his head so loudly he was surprised Sherlock couldn’t hear them. _Distance!  Distance!!_

John surreptitiously scooted away from him.  Sherlock followed, and prodded John in the knee.

“You’re a doctor; tell me which ones you know.”

_Oh, god.  He was Sherlock’s entertainment, now._

“What’s the time?” John asked, desperately not wanting to engage, or be anywhere near Sherlock.  Sitting in diagonally opposite corners sounded nice, actually.  
“Half past ten, don’t stall.”

John sighed.

“If I play the game with you, will you go sit over there?” he pointed across the room.

Sherlock looked to where he was pointing, and then looked back at John and narrowed his eyes.

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.  
“That’s my one term, Sherlock.  If I agree to entertain you, you have to sit over there.”

He thought about it for half a minute, then grumbled, but stood up and stalked over to the other corner.

“Thank you.”  
“ _Now_ will you tell me which ones you know?”

John closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face wearily, wondering if he could spare the concentration.

“That one’s morphine,” he said, pointing to a blue line that read C17H19NO3.  
“Yes.”  
“Orthomyxoviridae is a virus group containing Influenzavirus A, B and C.”  
“Good.”

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s condescension.

“Streptococcus pongees is strep throat and bordetella pertussis is whooping cough.”  
“Oh excellent, John.  I didn’t expect you to know that one.”  
“Well I had whooping cough when I was younger, and so did my sister.  I was curious.”  
“Any others?”

John peered at the wall, feeling like he was back in med school (an experience he didn’t particularly want to repeat).  He _knew_ he remembered more than that, but the writing swam in and out of clarity and he shook his head.

“Sorry.”

Sherlock sighed, then stood up and strolled back over to John.

“What- what are you doing?”  
“You said that if you entertained me, I had to sit over there.  You did, so I went.  Now you’ve stopped, so I’m back.”

John groaned and put his head in his hands.

“I hate you,” he muttered, though that wasn’t what he meant, and the Wolf raised Its head and sniffed in interest.  
“No you don’t,” Sherlock replied cheerfully.

-/-\\-

John spent the next two hours sitting in the same spot, teeth clenched and hands curled into fists, trying _desperately_ not to move.  It seemed like every pore of his body wanted to shift just an inch to the right (just a _teensy_ little inch), so that he could finally touch Sherlock.  All he had to was budge over, and then they’d be pressed together, from the knee to the shoulder, and John could have _contact_.

Sherlock moved away to stand in agitation, and John nearly wept with a dizzying mixture of both relief and disappointment.  He started pacing around the perimeter of the room, treating John like part of the wall and simply stepping around him.

“What do they _want_?” he asked irritably.

 _Oh dear,_ John thought through the haze of the moon song.  They were edging into danger territory and there was no way John could deal with that right then.

“I don’t know Sherlock, if case you hadn’t realised, I am currently sitting in the same room as you, having been subjected to the same kidnapping.”

Sherlock walked to the door and repeated his previous action of kicking it angrily.

“What do you want?” he shouted.  There was no response.  Sherlock growled quietly and John grimaced.

“What’s the time?” he asked quietly.  
“Nearly one in the morning by now,” Sherlock sighed, and lay down on the floor in the middle of the room.

John pursed his lips and breathed in and out, in and out, in and out.  If he could just get through the next five hours, it would be pushing it, but he would probably be able to focus and work on getting them out of there.

_Christ.  Five hours._

It had never seemed so long.

-/-\\-

Dimly, lost in the haze of concentration and determination, John heard the sound of heavy boots carrying a person to the door of their small room ( _cell_ ), but didn’t recognise what that meant until there were three, sharp knocks on the door.  John’s eyes snapped open, and so did the Wolf’s.  Sherlock’s head lifted lazily and he stared at the door, not noticing how tense John had become.

There was the sound of a key in the lock, turning the mechanism slowly until it clicked.  John stood, and so did the Wolf.  Sherlock’s arm came up to lift his head and he raised an eyebrow.

The door creaked open and allowed in a large man (in all senses of the word), who carried a gun in his hand, two strapped to his belt, a knife in his boot, a taser slung across his back, and an oily smirk stretching his lips into a grotesque simile of a smile.  John looked at him carefully, noting all of his weapons, and so did the Wolf, eyeing the fleshy bits of the man’s belly, shoulder, thigh and neck.  Sherlock’s head fell back to the floor with a dull thump.  “Boring.”

The man took a step forwards, gun in hand turning to point to Sherlock and his mouth opening to speak.  The man’s words were pointless and irrelevant.  John leapt.  So did the Wolf.  Sherlock lay still on the floor.

There was a bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Friday! Well, Australian time, anyway. The point is, I've posted before my deadline. So ha, take that musical and sickness, you suck.  
> So there.  
> This is the part where it gets a bit more interesting! I really liked this chapter when I wrote it (though I did so in fits and starts) because I thought it expressed more of John's struggle and the Wolf's attitude. Hope you liked it too!  
> Also, I don't have a major problem with Twilight. I mean, I read it a while ago, and I enjoyed it for what it was (as in, a non-masterpiece that was good to read when I didn't want to think very hard. Or at all), but I'm not an obsessive fan. Nor am I a hater, I just kind of go with the flow. Which involves making fun of it occasionally, but that's okay.  
> Still no Beta, still don't own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated rights.  
> Let me know what you thought :)


	7. Chapter Six

_The man took a step forwards, gun in hand turning to point to Sherlock.  John leapt.  So did the Wolf.  Sherlock lay still on the floor.  There was a bang._

-/-\\-

The Wolf crashed into the man, smashing him against the door, heedless of any human rationality that told It to stop, to be careful.  John told the Wolf none of those things.

The man had dared to even think about harming Sherlock, harming what was his ( _Theirs_ ), and he would not simply stand down and let the man carry through with his threat.

There was no separation between John and the Wolf in that moment, no dividing line between human thought and animal instinct.  They were one and the same, and they would not back down.  The Wolf opened Its jaws and placed Its teeth over the man’s neck.  John smiled widely, lips stretching over teeth and turning into a feral display.

“ _John!_ ”

No, he was not quite John at the moment.  This was almost pure Wolf, and John had no trouble at all letting It take over completely.

“Stop.”

Sherlock’s voice was strong, and carried an air of a command, but the Wolf knew who was stronger here.  It would be pointless for Sherlock to try and stop It now.

“I’m asking you to stop, John, and not kill that man.  He kidnapped us, but if you kill him now, we won’t get the chance to find out why.  I promise you, you can help me question him.”

In the smallest part of his mind, John realised that that shouldn’t appease him, shouldn’t make him happy.  But it did.  The Wolf allowed a centimetre of space between Its teeth and the man’s neck.  The man whimpered, and Its eyes bore into him.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said heavily.  The Wolf growled in response.

-/-\\-

Sherlock stared at the enormous animal standing over their kidnapper.  A part of him, though he would never admit it so long as he lived, was sort of freaking out.  Well, no.  It was full on freaking out, but the rest of him shoved that part to the back of his Mind Palace and locked it first in a safe, and then in a closet for good measure.  He could look at it and examine it later; what they needed at the moment was to get out.

“John, I’m going to come closer and search this man for a phone,” he said carefully, stating his intentions clearly and hoping he wouldn’t get mauled to death by his best friend.

As luck would have it (for the first time in more than a week), he _was_ carrying a phone and Sherlock grabbed it quickly, hands nearing the wolf’s flank before darting away without touching.  Loud, steady breathing, only punctuated here and there with a growl, was the only sound in the room.  Sherlock looked at the phone briefly, rolling his eyes at the outdated model, and called Lestrade.

“Sherlock?  Where the _hell_ are you?”  
“Good morning Detective Inspector.  I’m not entirely sure where I am, seeing as I had a bag thrown over my head and was unconscious most of the way.  John and I have been kidnapped.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Who managed to kidnap _John_?”

Sherlock frowned slightly – he felt like he should be offended at the implication that John could defend himself much better than he could, except that it was true.

“Yet another mystery, I’m afraid.  Although,” Sherlock continued, looking at the wolf.  “I get the feeling he was holding back a bit.”

The wolf’s tail moved from side to side once.

“What do you…oh.  Did he finally tell you, then?”  
“What?”

He stared at the phone, and then had a moment of clarity.

“He told _you_ first?”

The silence from the other end of the phone line meant Greg had just realised he'd let something slip.  The wolf sighed, teeth still poised above the man’s jugular.

“And no, he didn’t tell me.  He showed me.”

Sort of.

“Well, he did say he would show you, I guess,” Lestrade mused.  Sherlock frowned again, and then realised the banality of their conversation.  
“Can we focus on the bigger problem of us being kidnapped, for the moment?  Because we’ve been here for nearly 120 hours, and I, for one, would quite like to go home.”  
“Oh, yeah,” Greg sounded sheepish.  “Let’s do that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

“Can you trace the call?”  
“Well I’m not completely useless, am I?  What do you think I’ve been doing?  You’re in…what the,  _Chipping Sodbury_?  I don’t know what the hell you’re doing there, but we’ll be able to get to you within two hours.  Do you think you can manage until then?”

Sherlock stared at the man on the floor, he had passed out several minutes ago, but the wolf was still standing over him, on guard for any sign of movement.

“I think we’ll be fine – I have John, after all.”  
“Fair enough, it doesn’t seem like there’s much that can take him down.”  
“Hmm.”  
“Well, see you in about two hours then.”

Sherlock had already disconnected the call.  He walked cautiously towards the vigilant animal and sat, cross-legged, a metre away from its nose.

They stared at each other for a while, and Sherlock didn’t think he was imaging the worry in its eyes.  Sherlock looked closer, and felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him.  Despite the fact that there was a very large, very real (he hoped – if he was hallucinating, something had gone very wrong) wolf surrounding them, John’s eyes were as human as ever, and they looked away sadly.

“So,” Sherlock cleared his throat.  He had never started a more awkward conversation in his life, and that was saying something when you took into account his childhood.  “You can turn into a giant wolf.”

It sighed and nudged a gun away from the unconscious man’s body.  John sat down cross-legged across from Sherlock, but didn’t look at him.

“Yes.”

There were no words to describe the atmosphere of the room, except for _awkward_.

“Would you like to elaborate on that, at all?”  
‘It’s pretty much what it says on the tin, Sherlock.  To use the common term, I’m a werewolf.”  
“Can you be killed?”  
“Of course I can be killed.  There isn’t a living thing on the planet that can’t be killed!”  
“Is it harder to kill you than normal people?”  
“Yes, Sherlock.  And the answer for ‘why’ is because I can transform into a very large and capable wolf.  I am rather good at defence.  And offense.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that.  Maybe John would let him test exactly how good he was.  He could always set John on Mycroft – that was bound to be entertaining.

“You’re not setting me on Mycroft, Sherlock.”

He pouted.

“Can you only be killed by silver bullets?”  
“ _No_.  Silver bullets will kill me, but so will regular ones.  What properties does silver have that makes everyone think that?  You hit any animal with a bullet in the right place and it’ll go down in seconds!  Honestly,” John muttered, rolling his eyes.  
“I’m asking these questions for _science_ , John.”  
“Oh, for the love of _science_ , that makes everything better.”

John’s shoulders rose to his ears and his head sunk down.  Sherlock, showing self-preservation for possibly the first time in his life, backed off.

“I apologise, John.  This is what I do when I come across new things – I ask questions.  And you are very new indeed.”

John sighed.

“It’s…fine.  It’s all fine.  Hardly anyone has ever known, apart from my family and direct superiors in the army, and within the space of five days three people have found out.  It’s all a bit… _new_.  I don’t react particularly well to change.”  
“Three?”

Sherlock focused on the number, thinking quickly of who else could have discovered John’s ability apart from Lestrade.  He stood up, expression thunderous, fingers reaching for the phone.

“MYCROFT!”

John shot up from the floor, hands reaching out to placate Sherlock.

“No, Sherlock, look, it’s fine.  I didn’t even tell him, he probably knew all along!  Stop – what are you doing?”  
“Mycroft, I swear if you even think about taking John away for one of your little _experiments_ , I will not hesitate to find you and _kill_ you; I don’t care what Mummy says.  There will not be a place on this earth that can hide you if you take him away.  If you hurt him, I will find everyone responsible, starting with you, so just _leave us alone_!!”

He stabbed the end call button viciously and looked up at his flatmate.

John’s hands were hanging by his side, his whole body relaxed, and there was a smile of something akin to wonder stretching across the whole of his face.

“You’re not giving me to Mycroft.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous, as if I would ever!  I won’t be able to let you out of my sight for _weeks_ now.”  
“You’re not sending me away.”  
“John, were you _listening_ to me?”

Despite Sherlock’s scathing remarks, John’s smile grew even wider and his eyes sparkled.  Sherlock stopped talking to himself and looked properly at John.  His breath caught slightly.

“Someone sent you away before.”

John’s smile slipped slightly and he blinked.  He nodded once, then sat back down and picked up the gun.

“I don’t want to talk about it at the moment, Sherlock.  Can we just focus on getting out of here?”

Sherlock frowned.

“Alright.”  
“He’ll probably be waking up soon, can you check if there’s anything to tie his hands up with?”

John removed the various weapons from the man’s body and Sherlock ripped a strip of fabric of the bottom of his jacket.  Together, they manoeuvred him into a sitting position and John bound his arms behind his back.  They retreated several steps, each picking up a weapon before John hesitated.

“Should I…”

Sherlock nodded.

“I think that would be wise – it will give us an advantage.”

Whether it would give them an advantage or not, Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure, but he desperately wanted it for his own selfish reasons.  John breathed in and a wolf breathed out.  Sherlock watched the transformation with interest, but it was too quick for him to see any details.

The wolf stalked through the room, checking the door once to see that it was shut securely (and Sherlock wondered why _he_ hadn’t done that), then sat.  And howled.

The man woke with a start and, upon seeing the huge animal in front him, screamed.  Sherlock flicked the safety off the gun he was holding and pointed it at him steadily.

“Shut up.”

The man did, eyes flicking between the two threats before him, evidently more frightened by the one not holding a gun.  Sherlock didn’t think he was imagining the satisfied, toothy smile spreading across the wolf’s snout.

“Who are you?”

The wolf stood and walked in slow circles, tail brushing Sherlock's legs occasionally and long claws clicking loudly on the floor.  Every so often it would growl quietly.  John, Sherlock was rapidly discovering, was very skilled in the art of appearing menacing.

“No one!” the man squeaked.  The snarl that followed was louder.  
“I don’t think so,” Sherlock said, his voice low.  “What is your name?”  
“Grudener!  Albert Grudener!”  
“And why did you take us?”  
“The case!  Your case!  The men that were trying to blackmail me!  They were trying to stop me marrying Marigold!  Please, I have done nothing wrong; I was only trying to save my marriage!!”

Sherlock stared at him.  The wolf stopped its pacing and sat at Sherlock’s feet, tilting its head slowly to the right.

“You killed two men, one whose arms and legs were cut off after death, simply to save your marriage?  I highly doubt that.  What did they know?”  
“I don’t know, I swear!  They just told me that if I wanted to stay out of jail, I needed to stay away from Marigold!”

The man’s eyes were wide.  With shaking hands, he wiped the sweat of his face.

“You’re lying.  What did they know?” Sherlock demanded.  The wolf stood and brought its teeth close to the man’s leg.  “Here’s a bit of incentive,” he said casually.  “You tell me what they had on you, or your femur bone will be shattered.”

Grudener breathed in and looked desperately between Sherlock, whose face was calm and impassive, and the ever-nearing wolf.  He remained silent.  The wolf’s sharp teeth were placed around his thigh.  He remained silent.  Teeth dug into flesh and blood appeared.

“Okay, please!”

The teeth remained, but didn’t close further.

“I was married once before I met Marigold!  She was an awful woman, always harping on about how I did everything wrong, how I never paid her any attention, how I always humiliated her at social events.  And the one day, I just got so _angry_.  I’d had enough of it!  You try living with someone who constantly tells you off, despite being younger than you and inferior to you!  But Marigold, she’s a lovely little thing.  Always so sweet, and so kind, and she’d never do anything to hurt me – and nor I her!”  
“You say you’d never hurt her, but why would the two men you had killed threaten to inform your fiancé if that was the case?  You’d done it more than once, hadn’t you?”

Sherlock’s eyes were alight with the new information.

“You’ve had other relationships that have ended with the woman murdered, and they believed you’re going to do it again.  They must have had some sort of relationship with Marigold, otherwise they would have left it alone, unless they’re simply acting as good Samaritans, but that hardly ever happens and almost never when there’s _murder_ involved.  What are they, then, her brothers?  Uncles?  Cousins?  And you think killing them is going to ensure your marriage?  What will she do when she finds out it was you?  Oh, this is fantastic!  Almost worth getting kidnapped in the first place.”

Unseen by Sherlock, the wolf rolled its eyes.

“Thank you so much for playing along, you have been very helpful indeed.  This _has_ been one of my more interesting cases; I was hoping it wouldn’t be a boring one.  I suppose you’re connected to the Butcher John and I visited earlier.  The owner, perhaps?  Yes.  Oh, this is brilliant.”

The wolf’s ears pricked up and it let out a low noise of warning.

“It has been a _pleasure_ , mister Grudener, but I’m afraid the police are here and my time is up.  Don’t worry about repeating your statement, I’ve got it recorded right here.”  He held up the phone, smiled pleasantly at the confessed murderer, and pistol-whipped him over the back of the head.  John stood and stretched his jaws.  He winced.

“It’s really painful, keeping your mouth partially open like that.  I kept wanting to bite down,” he commented.  
“Well it’s a good thing you didn’t – I think that might have been a bit more difficult to explain away than just saying there was a mysterious dog that ran away,” Sherlock said lightly.  John smiled despite himself.  
“True,” he agreed.

They moved Albert Grudener away from the door so that Lestrade would be able to get it open, and sat back against the opposite wall, content to let the police do the rest of the job.  They waited in silence, listening to the sirens as they approached, and then the shouting of officers when they entered the house and led away Grudener’s henchmen.  Eventually, the door was kicked down and Greg Lestrade stood before them.  He stared at Sherlock and John, sitting casually against the wall (with their legs touching, much to John’s immense – though hidden – relief), then turned to the unconscious murderer and rolled his eyes.

“You can never just leave it to us, can you?”  
“Well when it takes more than three days…” Sherlock muttered.  He and John rose silently and made their way out of the room they’d been kept in, through the hallways of what appeared to be an old house, and out in the cool air.  It was close to four in the morning, if John was right, and the full moon wasn’t as strong as it had been hours previous.  Sherlock looked up at the sky, and the moon, and raised his eyebrows as he turned to John, though he didn’t say anything.  He had a feeling it would be unwelcome.

Behind them, the officers led various men out in handcuffs, and several others dragged Grudener, struggling slightly with the weight.  Several police cars were filled with the criminals and were driven off, back to Scotland Yard.

“You guys want a lift?” Greg asked.

Ordinarily, he would have declined, but after a look at John and seeing how tired he was, Sherlock acquiesced.

“That would be good.”

It was worth the odd taste the words left in his mouth and his dislike of police cars to see the grateful look on John’s face.

“Thank you,” he added, and John’s smile brightened.

-/-\\-

In the days after their return to Baker Street, John slept for at least ten hours a day and ate more than three meals.  Sherlock slept for 6 hours, and ate dinner every day, as well as other snacks when John could force them on him. Their friendship remained unchanged despite Sherlock’s new knowledge, though he did manage to test a few theories regarding werewolf physicality and mentality.  If he did so without John knowing, well, so much the better.  (Though he didn't.)

A month passed, in which Sherlock took on new clients, John gave up his job at the clinic and took a newer, more flexible one at Bart’s (where he could work and Sherlock could do his experiments and ‘play’ in the morgue), and they _finally_ took the step from ‘friends’ to ‘that bit more’, which didn’t so much mean a change in their dynamic as it did the addition of sex.  And cuddling – John was rather determined on that point.  In thanks of his assistance in their safe return and the fact that he didn’t alert the authorities to John’s special abilities, John and Sherlock’s public announcement made Lestrade the victor of the Yard’s betting pool (and Sally one day off, much to her disappointment and Sherlock’s glee).

Mycroft was ceremoniously refused entry to 221B after Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson that he threatened John with evisceration and painful death if he dared to hurt Sherlock.  It wasn’t exactly _true_ , but the general idea was there and she did a remarkable job of standing at the bottom of the steps and not letting him through until he apologised for what he had done ‘and _meant_ it’.  If Sherlock remained nearer to John than he had before and Mycroft’s kidnappings reduced entirely, no one mentioned it.

However, despite their good fortune and relative normality (for them, at any rate), John hadn’t transformed back into the wolf in front of Sherlock.  Knowing about the phenomenon that was John Watson and yet being unable to know him as thoroughly as he wanted to was torture for Sherlock.  But he respected John’s boundaries, if only because John respected his own.  He would wait, for the moment, though Sherlock was determined to see the wolf again eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eee!  
> There's just an epilogue to go after this. I really hope you guys all liked it and that it fulfilled whatever wishes you had for the last chapter of this story. (Rest assured, there will be more Wolf/Sherlock interaction in the final part!)  
> Albert Grudener is my version of a canon Holmes villain. His original name was Adelbert Gruner, but I thought that sounded weird so I changed the 'de' around. His past in the books is much the same as it was in this chapter.  
> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments, all the kudos and everything else. You have been a most wonderful audience :)  
> See you for the last time (for Moon Song, at least...I'll be back...) on Wednesday.  
> Cheers,  
> Foxboxtango.  
> ^_^


	8. Postlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH LAST CHAPTER.  
> Hope everyone enjoys :)

**Postlude**

It was nearing full moon again; the first since their kidnapping and John wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it.  The song seemed louder in his blood than ever before and the change in his and Sherlock’s relationship meant it was going to be that much harder for the Wolf to keep away, but he couldn’t help but feel cautious at the thought of showing someone the change.  He had only shown someone on purpose once before, and it hadn’t ended well.  It had been a stupid, foolish mistake, but John had been hurt by it nonetheless and it had made him much more wary of other people than he had been before.  The time with Lestrade hadn’t counted in his mind, if only because it was so fleeting and Greg hadn’t been able to get study It properly.  Sherlock seemed to sense a shift in John’s mood, but didn’t bring it up, much to his relief.

On the night of the full moon, they ordered in curry and sat on the sofa, watching meaningless telly.  John was leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder as he ate and Sherlock had tentatively placed an arm around him, keeping it there when John made an encouraging noise and did nothing to move it.  He appreciated Sherlock’s attempt at ‘cuddling’, and tried not to let the Wolf take control and chuck Itself across Sherlock’s lap.

The programs on TV switched from terrible game shows to even worse soaps, until John had finally had enough and got up to put in a movie.

“I,” he said as he turned on the DVD player, “am finally going to educate you on the hilarity that is Monty Python and the Holy Grail.  By all rights, you being English means you should already have seen this, so all I’m doing is bringing your education up to date.”

Sherlock blinked.

“Am I going to regret this?”  
“Almost definitely.”

-/-\\-

“What!”  
“I told you you’d probably regret it!”

By the time the movie ended, it was close to midnight and the full moon was roaring in John’s blood.  He had ended up half on top of Sherlock, with Sherlock’s hands (before they were waved about in outrage) gently, almost absent-mindedly, kneading the back of John’s neck and shoulder for the majority of the movie.  At the first touch, John had barely managed to restrain a quiet moan – the canine part of him ensured that as soon as someone ran their fingers through his hair or gave him a massage, he was gone, and he was quite disappointed that it had stopped.  The gentle petting had kept the Wolf quiet for the most part, but It had returned with quite a vengeance.

“It can’t just _end like that_!  That’s not an ending!  I can’t believe we went through ninety minutes of absolute silliness and unbelievable plot for that.”

John laughed and the Wolf howled.  And then, unconsciously and quite by accident, the Wolf laughed and John howled.

Sherlock’s complaints slowed and stoped.  John’s howl went on for a few more seconds, until it faded away.  He grinned at Sherlock, then seemed to realise what he’d done and his smile faded just like his howl.  Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“Oh, god.  Sorry.  It just…sort of came out.”

John sighed in exasperation at himself and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It’s –”  
“Fantastic, John!  I’ve never heard anything like it!  If I hadn’t known it was you, I would have thought I was next to a real wolf!”

Sherlock’s eyes were still wide, but with wonder, not fear, and they looked at John with an intensity that made him glow and want to howl again.  He bit his lip and thought about the ridiculousness of his idea, then gave up, jumped off Sherlock, and grabbed his arm.

“Come with me,” John said.  
“Okay.”

John led Sherlock out of 221, away from Baker Street, and into the park.  He took a deep breath and looked around, making sure there was no one about despite the late hour.  He nodded once to himself and turned back to Sherlock.

“Okay, I haven’t done this with another person since the army.  Just…bear with me, alright?”

Sherlock sat down on the bench, crossed his legs and gestured to John with his hands out.  John interpreted that as a sort of ‘go for it’ kind of thing, but wasn’t really sure.  He crouched and removed his shoes and socks, ignoring Sherlock’s confused look.  He didn’t bother with taking off his jumper.  Standing, he looked Sherlock dead in the eye and, with only a stern warning to the Wolf not to be too affectionate, relinquished control.

Sherlock’s hands came together with a clap and he brought them up to his mouth in his normal ‘this is fascinating’ position.

The Wolf did a happy circle of the bench, yipping, and then came to a stop back in front of Sherlock.  It tipped Its head back and John and the Wolf howled with _feeling_.  The sound filled the park and seemed to echo around them, continuing on even when They closed Their jaws and lowered Their head.

A huff of breath brought John back to his senses a bit and he blinked in uncertainty, adrenaline still pounding in his veins.  Sherlock’s mouth was open and he was breathing quietly through lips curving into an awed smile.

The smile broke through and he laughed joyously.  He fell to his knees and reached out, almost touching.  Asking.

 _No, just wait_ – John tried to tell It, but having basically received the go-ahead for touching, there was little he could do to stop the Wolf.  Tail wagging like a demented helicopter blade, the Wolf leapt at Sherlock, paws landing on shoulders as It crashed into him and pushed him flat on his back.  Sherlock laughed breathlessly and lay there while the Wolf wriggled carefully on top of him.  Gently, Sherlock’s hands carded through the Wolf’s fur, long fingers tangling in it as he became bolder, encouraged by the Wolf’s loud and incessant rumbling.  John was nearly out of his mind with pleasure.  Sherlock laughed again and then, in an act so utterly adorable that John, even lost as he was, would never forget it, hugged the Wolf to him tightly.

The Wolf’s tail began thumping so hard, Sherlock eventually had to release It slightly to say,

“Ow, John.  Do you mind?”

The Wolf yipped once in apology, licked Sherlock’s cheek (and oh, god, John was never going to get over that one) and rolled off him. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows.  His hair was ruffled and his clothes were wrinkled and coated with a layer of fur.  He had a grin on his face and his eyes were bright.  John had rarely seen the man so happy.  The idea that John could hold Sherlock’s interest as much as a locked room murder with no weapon could was oddly flattering.

Its tail was still flying from side to side and Sherlock’s hands made a grab at it.  The Wolf did another roll and stood a few feet away from Sherlock, who was still lying down.  A wicked gleam entered Sherlock’s eyes and he scrambled to his feet before chasing after It with a chuckle infused battle cry (Sherlock Holmes didn't _giggle_ ).

Sherlock chased It through the trees and around the small playground. The Wolf was faster than Sherlock and barked happily as It darted around trees, turning around and padding backwards as It teased Sherlock for being so slow. Eventually, they ended up back at the bench where John’s footwear had been abandoned earlier.  They both stretched out on the grass and after a few minutes, the Wolf was silently replaced with John.  He breathed out in a huge sigh and turned his head to look at Sherlock.

“Thanks,” John said.

 _You idiot,_ Sherlock’s eyes seemed to reply.  _I should be thanking you – you have no idea how much I appreciated this, I mean it._

His mouth said, “Any time,” and he meant that, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. It's done...thanks so much to everyone who commented and gave kudos and bookmarked and subscribed and even just read because I'm always amazed that other people want to read the crazy shit I come up with in the middle of the night.  
> There are a couple drabbles in the works, and one finished that is in the same Universe but has no connection with the...(dun dun dun) potential sequel. *gasp* What do you think? Would anybody be interested?  
> A quick note, the "John was nearly out of his mind with pleasure" is something I want to clear up. Basically, it's not inherently sexual (though with Sherlock, it probably would be in the future), it's just a really relaxing feeling that puts you on cloud 9 million. Think of it as the best back, shoulder, neck and head massage you've ever had happening at the same time, eating your favourite food, and being with the person you love most in the world.  
> And times that...by...six.  
> That sort of thing.
> 
> So yeah, I hope you guys all enjoyed this crazy wild ride (okay, it wasn't that crazy, or wild). Please leave a comment and tell me what you thought!  
> Still no Beta, still don't own.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:
> 
> I love Wolf!John, so I wrote it. Hopefully you'll enjoy it too :) Unfortunately, I don't own any of the rights to any portion of Sherlock, be it the BBC series or the original works written by Sir Arthur  
> Cheers,  
> Foxboxtango


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